


Cordially Invited

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reception for a wedding long in coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cordially Invited

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10530.html?thread=15691042#t15691042) for [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10530.html?thread=15453986#t15453986) on the kink meme, and kindexed [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia_kindex/967155.html).

Åland wakes up because someone tries to sit on the couch where he’s sleeping and instead sits on him.

“Hey,” he grumbles, kicking whoever it is. “Goway. ‘m sleeping here.” He closes his eyes and puts his head back down on the seat.

“…isn’t it, like, bad form to sleep through your dads’ reception?”

Åland opens an eye and glares over at Poland, who happens to be wearing a suit. “Was at the ceremony. Lived through the custody battle. _Believe_ me, I don’t need a party. Which they decided to hold in _my_ house, which probably violates some cosmic rule about parenting.”

“Huh.” Poland taps his lips with a shiny electric blue-painted fingernail. “Like, sorry about that. If I’d known I would’ve talked to Lithuania, who’d’ve called up Estonia and had him, like, talk to your dads.”

“I tried,” Åland sighs. “Then they sicced Sealand on me.”

“Way not cool,” Poland sighs. “Do you want me to bring you, like, food or something?”

“No. I’m going to keep moping.”

“Oh. Well, whatever.”

 

 

 

Denmark botches his dinner toast, but nobody expected anything else. There are few good places a speech littered with quotations from Kierkegaard can go.

Afterwards, when the meal has started up, he turns to Sweden and says, “Was that okay? I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for you both.”

“It was fine,” Finland says, his hand still entwined with Sweden’s on the table, their matching rings touching. “Thank you.”

“By which he means it was awful and he’s being nice,” Norway states flatly, having scooted his chair back from his seat at the table across the aisle. “I told you to remove the bit about ducks.”

“But it was funny!” Denmark protests.

Norway raises an eyebrow.

 

 

 

“It was nice of him to ask you to be best woman,” Lithuania says carefully.

“Wasn’t it? It was such a romantic ceremony, and there were only ten of us. I didn’t even have to carry my frying pan in case any homophobic passersby decided to heckle! Scandinavia is so wonderful that way.” Hungary takes a bite of fish. “I hope they like my gift. Austria said it looked like something I should give to Germany for his birthday, but that’s ridiculous. Not enough leather.”

Lithuana swallows, wondering if, like most situations with Poland, it’s better not to ask. Unfortunately, God gave him a sense of curiosity. “Leather?”

“Bondage, anyway. See, there’s this girl who works at my office who recommended them, and I really think they’ll like them – one of the plot-what-plots involves a photographer, and you know how much Finland likes taking pictures –”

 

 

 

“Think, England,” France murmurs, his hand on England’s waist as they both try to lead in dancing, “we could ‘ave been like zis.”

“One of us repressing the other for six hundred years and multiple invasions by Russia? Spare me.”

“No, no,” France murmurs, “’appily married.”

England’s hand tightens around his. “I suspect it would have been quite unhappy, myself.”

“Ah, but England. It would ’ave made _me_ so very ’appy.”

He feels more than sees England roll his eyes. “Your happiness is not the sole barometer of European well-being. Besides, you hate marriage.”

“You wound me with your lies. Marriage is a beautiful thing.”

“You think the same about mistresses.”

“Ah, yes,” France acknowledges. “Zey are also beautiful.”

“And so you see my problem.”

 

 

 

Russia spreads his elbows a little wider apart along the bar, sending one into Turkey’s arm.

“Hey,” Turkey says, “You’re going to spill my rakı, and Crimea’s not even yours anymore.”

“Your rakı is vile and cannot compare to my vodka.”

Turkey rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say. At least I wasn’t so afraid of the bar running out that I had to bring my own.”

Russia turns a little in his seat. “I never drink any other vodka than my own,” he says, frowning a little. “What if it has gone bad? What if it has been poisoned? I cannot take that chance; I have too many children to watch over. So I drink my own.”

Turkey wishes he could scoot his seat further away without being obvious about it. “You know what? I’m going to go talk to China about cat kebabs in front of Greece.”

“Have fun!” Russia trills.

 

 

 

“I’m so _full_ ,” Italy sighs happily, patting his stomach. “And it was all so good.”

Germany grunts. He can’t disagree, but he’s not exactly inclined to wax rhapsodic about the food.

“And tomorrow they’ll be borrowing one of Spain’s summer homes for their honeymoon,” Italy continues. “Oh, I’m so jealous! I wish I could take a week and swim in the sea. Like that time we ended up on that deserted island with Japan!”

“It wasn’t deserted,” Germany points out. “There was a Chinatown.”

“Yes, yes, and that was delicious too.” Italy sighs and pats his stomach again. “I bet they got some really good presents. Do you think if we got married we would get presents that nice?”

Germany tries not to wince. “No. I think Prussia would steal all the good presents, like he tried to kidnap Finland before the reception.”

“No wonder Finland asked Hungary to be his best woman.” Italy sighs, nuzzling Germany’s shoulder. “Prussia ran away and hasn’t come back. Do you think we should bring him back some leftovers?”

Germany tries not to imagine Italy using his suit jacket as makeshift food storage. “No,” he says finally. “No, I think not.”

“Then we’ll have to feed him twice at ours!” Italy declares. Germany regrets letting him catch Sweden's bouquet.  



End file.
